


why don't we spin the wheel

by futuresoon



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Eye Trauma, Forced Cannibalism, Gore, Implied/Referenced Child Sexual Abuse, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, ending's not unhappy though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuresoon/pseuds/futuresoon
Summary: The centerpiece of the room is a massive fortune wheel. It sits on a black pedestal, the colorful segments each marked with different symbols of some kind. Akira moves closer to get a better look at them.Out from behind the wheel walks a figure.(There’s one last obstacle in Sae’s Palace, and when a world based on the principle of unwinnable games gets desperate, things get a little rough.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Cognitive Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 49
Kudos: 699
Collections: 21 plus akeshuake server events





	why don't we spin the wheel

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 21+ Akeshuake Server Minibang! The accompanying art by Wynn is linked in the end notes. Please check out the other fics in the collection too!

Akira doesn’t really… _like_ Sae Nijima’s Palace.

Not that he especially likes _any_ Palace, in terms of content, but seeing the distortion of someone who by all accounts used to be a good person is…uncomfortable. It’s easier to triumphantly bring down a cut-and-dry bad guy. With people like Kamoshida, it’s hard to imagine they were ever anything but rotten. But Sae had good intentions. She wanted to help people. Outside influence, not innate evil, turned her into this.

And if that could happen to her, couldn’t it happen to anyone?

Not just on the grand scale of a Palace, but…smaller corruptions, lesser evils, acts that seem justified. If someone starts on the side of justice, what makes them falter? Is it a cascade of small injustices, or a single tragedy? Is a gradual fall, or a swift one? Do you even realize you’re doing it?

How much has to happen to you before a descent to monstrosity seems like the right idea?

Akira’s been thinking about that a lot lately, whenever he looks at Goro Akechi.

There’s so much he doesn’t know. Akechi’s voice on the phone call was so unlike the boy Akira thought he was getting close to; not just what he said, but what he sounded like. Not cold, exactly, because cold implies a lack of emotion. Akechi sounded _proud_ of the idea. He sounded like he was looking forward to it.

But the Akechi Akira knows has only ever spoken against injustice. He seemed passionate, even, about using his career to take down criminals and help their victims.

Akechi claimed he awakened to his Persona because he wanted to protect himself from an attack, but Akira’s seen seven awakenings now, and all of them were born in the fires of _fuck you, I won’t let you hurt anyone anymore._

What happened, to twist that into this?

And--and besides--

The way Akechi kissed him last night didn’t seem monstrous at all.

_Gloved fingers carding through his hair. Warm mouth against his, tongue exploring almost cautiously. Heat coiling in his stomach as he wraps his arms around Akechi’s shoulders, pressing their bodies together. Impulse blooming inside him, walking backwards to the bed and pulling Akechi on top of him, gasping into Akechi’s mouth as gloved fingers slide up his shirt, Akechi grinding against him--_

_And stopping, pulling back. Akira looking up at him, blinking in surprise. Akechi’s throat working. Akechi’s face shifting into neutrality from what looked like fear._

_Akechi saying, “I’m sorry, that was a bit much. I’ll take my leave.”_

_Akira sitting up, saying, “No, I started that, sorry if you felt like you had to go along with it.”_

_Akechi’s face flickering into an attempt at a smile. “Well, in any case, it’s late. I should let you get some rest before tomorrow. There’s still a fair amount of the Palace left.”_

_Akechi exiting swiftly, leaving Akira confused and wondering if he did something wrong._

No, that hadn’t seemed like the actions of a bad person.

A strange person, maybe, if he’s planning to kill Akira later--

But Akira can’t really judge someone for being strange if he’s the one making out with the person who’s planning to kill him.

So when Akechi pulls off the trick that gets them to the highest part of the manager’s floor--Akira wonders, _if a person with good intentions can fall from grace, what does a person with bad intentions need for them to claw their way back up?_

It’s a meaningless thought experiment, of course, because he has no idea. 

But he wonders all the same.

They walk up the golden bridge, to the gaudy neon-striped wall marked CASINO and VICTOR. The door to the Treasure room looms over them, and Akira has a moment of relief, thinking, _finally, we made it._

“Uh, guys?” Futaba says. He turns to look at her; she seems to be adjusting something on the sides of her goggles. “It looks like this doesn’t actually lead directly to the Treasure after all. There’s another room in between.”

Ryuji groans. _“Seriously?”_ he says. “We came all the way up here and there’s _still_ more?”

Akira represses a sigh. Well, he’s still got some energy left.

“Okay,” he says, adjusting his gloves. “Let’s just get this done and we can head home.” And then wait for weeks to see if he’s going to die--but before that, head home.

“Keep your guard up,” Akechi advises. “Sae-san’s Shadow may be getting desperate. I wouldn’t put it past her to have something unfairly difficult as a final roadblock.”

“We’ll be careful,” Makoto says. Akira glances at her; he can see the thin lines of stress in her face. Akechi may have a point, but Akira wants to finish this as soon as he can. None of them like being here.

Akira pulls open the looming door. Whatever’s behind it, they have to get through.

It’s just as ostentatious as the rest of the gambling areas. Red velvet carpeting, mahogany walls, ivory planters with verdant ferns. Two luxurious couches lounge close to a wall, with three cushy-looking armchairs near the center of the room; one chair is farther from the others, facing them, like a podium overlooking a crowd.

But the centerpiece of the room is a massive fortune wheel. It sits on a black pedestal, the colorful segments each marked with different symbols of some kind. Akira moves closer to get a better look at them.

Out from behind the wheel walks a figure.

He wears the white shirt and black waistcoat, pants, bowtie, and sleeve garters of the other dealers, but lacks their black skin, looking as human as the customers. He smiles politely, and gives a small bow.

He’s the spitting image of Goro Akechi.

The real Akechi laughs, just a little. “I wondered if Sae-san might have a cognition of me in here somewhere,” he says. “I suppose I should be flattered it’s so close to the Treasure. She must have a high opinion of me.”

The cognitive Akechi titters. “Oh, hardly,” he says pleasantly. “I’m more of a last resort. You’ve exhausted her preferred methods of removing intruders, so she’s throwing the dregs at you. Lady Niijima may not play fair, but she likes to think she has _some_ morals. The Detective Prince, on the other hand, is an offshoot of the forces that conspire against her, a cog in a far more unfair mechanism than her own. And where her treatment of criminals such as yourselves may seem unpleasant, those forces are…a bit more so.”

The cognitive Akechi pauses. “So really, she has fewer morals than she thinks, if she’s still willing to use me.”

Makoto clenches her fists. “My sister--” she starts.

“Your sister isn’t here right now,” the cognitive Akechi says. “This is _my_ game. Tell me, how much do you know of police interrogation?”

Akira tenses. Makoto said she was going to avoid bringing up interrogation until the last minute, so it would be fresh in Sae’s head; the cognitive Akechi mentioning it must be coincidence.

“A fair amount,” Akechi says coolly. “Is that what this game is? Trying to convince us we’ve committed crimes we were nowhere near?”

The cognitive Akechi shakes his head. “Not quite,” he says. “I have no need for such paltry mind games. I simply want to know what you are and aren’t willing to say. Shall we sit down? I’m sure you’re in a hurry, so we may as well get started now.”

Akira looks over at the couches. They’re plush, but not quite big enough for eight people and a cat. Two of them will have to sit in the chairs.

“Most of you will have to settle for being in the audience, I’m afraid, but let’s see…” The cognitive Akechi gazes across each of them. “Kurusu-kun and the other me. Would you care to play?”

Akira very badly wants to say no.

He doesn’t like how any of this sounds, much less the idea that the players will have to undergo some form of interrogation. Not that he thinks he has that many secrets, overall--but when it comes to things he doesn’t want to say in front of Akechi, some are _very important._

But it doesn’t look like they’ll be able to pass until they do what this cognition wants. The room doesn’t have another door, even.

And if _someone_ has to play, well, it should be him. He doesn’t want any of the others to go through this.

He should probably get some practice being interrogated anyway.

He glances at Futaba. “Oracle, can you see the exit?” he asks.

She purses her lips. “Kind of,” she says. “But it’s blocked. I don’t see a keyhole, either.”

“Once I’ve asked a certain number of questions, I’ll open the door for you,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Really, it’s very simple. You could breeze right through this if you answer all of them correctly.”

“But judging by what you’ve said, we may not _want_ to answer them,” Akechi points out. “What happens if we don’t?”

The cognitive Akechi smiles. “Sit down, and I’ll explain the rules,” he says.

“I don’t like this,” Morgana says, his voice a little high. “Joker…”

Akira knows what he can’t say. “Yeah,” he says. “But it looks like we have to.”

Ryuji whaps his bat against the palm of his hand. _“Or_ we could just beat the shit out of this guy and blow the door open ourselves,” he says.

“I assure you, the walls in here are very sturdy,” the cognitive Akechi says calmly. “Once a suspect enters an interrogation room, they’re not getting out until the questioning is over.”

“Assuming they don’t come out in a body bag,” Makoto says softly.

The cognitive Akechi gives an almost condescending smile. “I doubt it will go _that_ far,” he says. “Even the most stubborn suspect gives in eventually. Lady Niijima is very aware of how good police interrogators are at their jobs. Many of her cases become much easier after the suspect has a little talk.”

Makoto grits her teeth, but doesn’t say anything.

“Now, then.” The cognitive Akechi gestures towards the various seating.

The others mutter their dissatisfaction as they sit on the couches. Futaba’s head keeps moving minutely around, like she’s still looking for exits. Ryuji keeps drumming his fingers onto his thigh until Ann nudges him and he stops.

Akira, Akechi, and the cognitive Akechi sit down in the chairs.

“The rules are quite simple,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Starting with Kurusu-kun, I’ll ask a question. If you lie or refuse to answer--” He gestures towards the wheel. “--I’ll give this a spin, and you’ll receive a penalty based on whatever the wheel lands on. Whichever occurs, the next question will go to the other me. Rinse, wash, repeat. And if your answer is correct but short on details, I can…elaborate a bit.”

“Sae-san may be an intelligent woman, but I’d hardly expect her to be a mindreader,” Akechi points out. “How will you know if we lie?”

The cognitive Akechi smiles pleasantly. “What type of police interrogator asks questions they don’t already know the answer to?” he replies.

Akechi huffs. “I suspect we won’t get much more of an explanation than that,” he says.

From behind them, Morgana says, “Logic doesn’t work in the cognitive world the way it does in the real one. If that’s what Sae Niijima thinks about interrogations, that’s how it is here.”

“In other words,” Futaba says, “it’s bullshit, but just go with it.”

The cognitive Akechi chuckles. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” he says. “Before we begin, I ask that the two of you remove your masks. This is about revealing the truth, after all. Concealing such an important aspect of your identity would be counterproductive.”

Cautiously, Akira takes off his mask and sets it on the floor. Akechi does the same.

“Wonderful,” the cognitive Akechi says with a smile. “Now.

“You have such colorful friends, Kurusu-kun. Here is your first question. What do you think they value most about you?”

Akira blinks. That’s…much less dangerous than he was expecting. It’s not even hard; he’s thought about it enough. “What I do for them,” he says.

The cognitive Akechi cocks his head. “Really? Not who you are?”

Akira shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, doing stuff for people kind of _is_ who I am,” he says.

“Interesting. And true, by the way. You are convinced that your value is wholly determined by the help and services you provide, even with the people you’re closest to. If helping others is all you’re good for, how far are you willing to go to prove you have use?” The cognitive Akechi steeples his fingers. “How much of yourself are you willing to give up to save someone?”

Akira stares.

He wishes he hadn’t taken the mask off. It’s so much harder to hide yourself when there’s nothing in the way.

“Oh, those don’t count as questions, by the way,” the cognitive Akechi says with a dismissive wave. “It’s just something to think about. Anyway, since you answered correctly, there’s no need for a penalty.” He gives an exaggerated sigh. “But it’s early days yet. Other me, you’re up. 

“Are you afraid of pain?”

Akechi gives a small, incredulous laugh. “Is that supposed to intimidate me?” he asks.

“Not at all,” the cognitive Akechi says, shaking his head. “I’m just curious how you’ll respond.”

“Well, I haven’t put much thought into it, but not especially,” Akechi says. “With a career like mine, there’s always a degree of physical risk. I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I was afraid of getting hurt.”

The cognitive Akechi nods. “True,” he says. “Both in terms of this game and reality as a whole. Some goals can’t be accomplished without a great deal of pain, whether physical or otherwise. Are the goals necessarily _worth_ the pain? Lady Niijima thinks so, and this is her world, so she must be right.”

Akira doesn’t know if he completely agrees with that. _Some_ goals aren’t worth it. But, well, being a Phantom Thief means taking a lot of hits, and their work is the most important thing Akira’s ever done.

“Back to Kurusu-kun.” The cognitive Akechi’s gaze slides over to him. “What do you think of Niijima-san’s goal?”

It takes Akira second to realize what he’s talking about. Sae is Lady Niijima; he must be referring to Makoto. Her choice of career? God, that’s awkward. He was supportive when she brought it up, but…

He doesn’t want to find out what the penalties are. And she’s his friend; they probably needed to talk about this eventually.

He swallows. “I’m not really a fan of it,” he says.

From behind them, Makoto says, a little hesitantly, “Joker?”

He twists around to look at her. “I know you have good intentions,” he says. “But…you do remember _why_ I’m in Tokyo, right?”

“I want to change the system so that doesn’t happen again,” Makoto says firmly. “If no one ever tries to do anything about it, it’ll never get better.”

“I know,” Akira repeats. “I’m not saying trying is a bad idea, necessarily. I just…” He’s not really sure how to say it. “When it comes to police corruption, I kind of have more firsthand experience than you do?”

Makoto’s jaw works. “That is a valid point, and I am willing to discuss it with you later,” she says.

“What a reasonable conversation,” the cognitive Akechi says. “It’s so nice to see friends who can settle their differences politely. And yes, that _is_ what he thinks. It’s very easy to have noble goals of fighting evil when you’ve never personally faced it.” He holds up a hand. “Oh, I know about your and Lady Niijima’s father, of course. But that wasn’t _you._ You’ve seen the after effects, but you’ve never been the one looking up at a badge while its holder grinds your face into the mud.”

A small part of Akira says, _And you’re not the one who’s going to get thrown to the wolves in a couple weeks, either._

“I think that’s enough,” Akechi says. “Niijima-san is not a player here. Isn’t it my turn again?”

The cognitive Akechi tuts. “So impatient. Are you that eager for the next question? Let’s see…” He taps a finger to his chin in thought.

“Are you afraid to die?”

Akechi raises an eyebrow. “Awfully similar to the last one, isn’t it?”

“Pain and death are very different,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Are you refusing to answer? The wheel’s been very neglected thus far, I feel sorry for it.”

Akechi shakes his head. “The answer is easy,” he says. “No.”

The cognitive Akechi gives a wide smile.

“Ah,” he says. “I should have mentioned that wrong answers still count as lies even if you _believe_ they’re true.”

Akechi’s face contorts. “That’s ridiculous,” he says. “I don’t _believe_ it’s true, it _is._ I think I know my mind better than you do.”

“I’m afraid you don’t know yourself nearly as well as you think you do,” the cognitive Akechi says lightly. “It’s true that you’re not afraid of pain, but pain is a part of life, a necessary cost to further your own goals. Death has no benefit. At best, your death will come after you have accomplished what you desire, but what if it comes before then? What if all that you have done is rendered meaningless? And at worst--what if your death is part of someone _else’s_ plans, and you were only ever a tool, destined to be discarded when your masters grew tired of you?”

Akechi doesn’t respond.

And Akira realizes-- _the cognition knows Akechi is working for someone._

 _How_ does he know? Does _Sae_ know? But Sae doesn’t know about the Metaverse, does she?

Very carefully, Akechi says, “I find it extremely difficult to believe Sae-san knows that about me.”

“Oh, don’t worry, she doesn’t,” the cognitive Akechi says, shaking his head. “But police interrogations aren’t really about learning new information, are they? The questions aren’t meant to gather clues. They’re meant to intimidate, to coerce, to wear down the suspect until they’ll admit to anything just to make it stop. I know _exactly_ what to ask each of you, and because I know the questions, I know the answers, too.”

And Akira realizes-- _he probably knows about the plan._

It might not even _matter_ if Akira doesn’t answer a question, if the question itself is suspicious. 

They have to finish this game as soon as possible, or--

“In any case!” The cognitive Akechi claps his hands together. “It’s time for the first penalty!”

He snaps his fingers. The wheel next to him starts to spin.

Akira can’t tell how many segments it has--dozens, probably. Gradually, it starts to slow down, and finally stop.

The top of the wheel has a red arrow on it, pointing down. Now that it’s gone still, the arrow is pointing at a symbol of a knife.

The cognitive Akechi clucks his tongue. “Oh, that one’s _boring,”_ he says. “But I suppose it’s best to start small.” He snaps his fingers again.

A shining silver dagger appears above Akechi, and plunges into his upper leg.

Akechi makes a short, cut-off noise, like he’s biting back a louder reaction, and his whole body flinches. The knife quickly pulls out, covered in blood, and disappears.

“Crow!” Akira cries, almost gets out of his seat, but Akechi holds up a hand.

“It’s fine,” he says shortly. “I don’t think it hit an artery.” He presses his other hand down over the wound. Blood drips down his pant leg, stark against the white. But it doesn’t seem like an especially dangerous amount of blood, for now.

“It should go without saying that healing is not allowed,” the cognitive Akechi says. “In fact, why don’t you try summoning your Persona? Just to prove it.”

Akira pulls Kikuri-Hime from the depths of his soul. Or tries to; it feels like she bounces against a wall before retreating back.

“I can’t,” he says.

“Exactly,” the cognitive Akechi says with a smile. “I suppose there’s nothing stopping you from using an item, but I must warn you that that will result in an additional penalty, and you only have so many items.”

Through clenched teeth, Akechi says, “Very well. You said there would be a set number of questions. Can you at least tell us how many?”

The cognitive Akechi titters. “Don’t be silly,” he says.

Which is about what Akira expected.

“Now, we must continue,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Kurusu-kun, back to you.

“Who was the last person you kissed?”

…that is not what Akira expected.

But maybe he should have--if the cognition is pulling out questions they don’t want to answer, this is one of them. His friends don’t know about the handful of times he and Akechi have spent alone in the attic. Even Morgana doesn’t exactly know; he usually leaves Akira alone during hangouts no matter who the other person is, and he hasn’t said anything about it. 

God, what would they think? They’ve never been thrilled about him being friends with Akechi, and now they’re genuine enemies. They won’t get it. And how can Akira possibly explain it to them? How can he look them in the eye and tell them the last time he and Akechi kissed was days after the phone call?

But--he’ll need to tell them eventually. He trusts them. _They_ trust _him._ Maybe he can get them to sort of understand, at least a little, if he explains it properly. 

But. Not _here._ Not while a cognition goes on about it in a way designed to make it sound as awful as possible, judging by how things have gone so far. He’ll do it on his own terms, after he’s thought about it more.

During his silence, Ryuji says, “Joker, c’mon, we don’t care.”

 _Yes, you do,_ Akira doesn’t say, and does say, “I’ll take the penalty.”

He can handle some pain. They’ll heal after this is over.

The cognitive Akechi lights up. “Our first refusal!” he says. “I wondered how long it would take to get to that.”

“Joker, _what the hell?”_

“Now now, no comments from the peanut gallery,” the cognitive Akechi says. He snaps his fingers, and the wheel begins to spin.

Akechi doesn’t say a word.

The wheel spins, and spins, and stops on a pair of symbols: red digital numbers reading 5:00, and a stylized image of the Joker outfit. Or most of it, at least; the coat’s missing.

The cognitive Akechi’s smile sharpens.

“I shouldn’t play favorites, but I _was_ hoping for one of these,” he says.

Unease starts to crawl up Akira’s spine.

“Don’t worry, it’s rather gentle when you get down to it,” the cognitive Akechi says pleasantly. “Shouldn’t hurt at all. Just take off your coat and sit on my lap. I’ll set a timer.”

From behind them, Ann says, in a voice threaded with anger, “What are you planning, asshole?”

“Nothing extreme, I assure you,” the cognitive Akechi says, holding up his hands. “But I _do_ get to enjoy myself a bit. I won’t stray beneath the clothes, if that’s what’s concerning you.”

“If _that’s_ what’s--Joker, you don’t have to do this,” Ann snaps. “We’ll find another way through here, let’s go.”

“Yeah, this is _bullshit,”_ Ryuji growls.

Akira wants to agree with Ann. Wants to get out of here immediately. But he doesn’t think there _is_ another way through here. They can’t get the exit to appear without the cognition’s help, and the outside of the room didn’t show any other entrances.

He glances over at Akechi. Akechi’s still sitting there, silent, one hand pressed against the wound on his leg.

“…it’s up to you, Joker,” Akechi says quietly, not looking at him.

Akira swallows.

It’s only five minutes.

The cognitive Akechi raises an eyebrow. Pats his upper thigh.

Akira feels his skin crawl.

He stands up slowly, almost mechanically. Takes off his coat and lets it drop to the floor. Walks across the room with the barest amount of input from his brain. 

_“Joker!”_ Ann cries out, but doesn’t follow up; someone must be trying to quiet her.

As he gets close, the cognitive Akechi reaches out a hand and rests it on Akira’s hip, gently pulling him in. All of Akira’s muscles tense as he awkwardly sits across the cognitive Akechi’s lap.

The cognitive Akechi gives him a pitying look. “You can do better than that,” he says.

Akira grits his teeth. Shifts over, straddles him.

“Good boy,” the cognitive Akechi murmurs.

A clock appears on the table, digital numbers reading 5:00. It begins to count down, one second at a time.

The cognitive Akechi traces one of Akira’s bare arms. “The spirit of your rebellion doesn’t cover sleeves?” he says, sounding amused.

“Guess not,” Akira says shortly.

“Well, I can’t say I’m complaining.” His fingers trail down, concluding at Akira’s wrist. He lifts it to his mouth, presses a kiss just below Akira’s glove.

Akira doesn’t move.

He’s facing away from the others, so he can’t see their reactions. That’s the one saving grace of this horrible thing. 

The cognitive Akechi trails small soft kisses up his arm, lingering at his shoulder. Rests a hand at the small of Akira’s back, splaying possessively, thumb stroking at him through the fabric.

Brushes his lips against the small amount of Akira’s neck not covered by the shirt. Nips, just a little.

“I must say, I’m not a fan of how high this collar is,” the cognitive Akechi murmurs against his skin. “That pale throat of yours could use some color.”

Akira’s fingers dig into his palms so hard he’s sure they’d draw blood if he wasn’t wearing gloves.

The cognitive Akechi brushes a thumb across Akira’s lower lip. “Aren’t you beautiful,” he murmurs. “It’s no wonder the other me followed Lady Niijima to that coffee shop like a duckling, if he was hoping to see your face there.”

He trails his hand down Akira’s throat and chest, caresses his stomach. Draws lower--Akira tenses--but slides onto his upper thigh, lightly grips it.

The cognitive Akechi’s voice lowers as he speaks directly into Akira’s ear, quiet enough that the others wouldn’t be able to hear it. “Wouldn’t it be something to have these wrapped around me,” he whispers. “I can just picture it: you spread out on your back, cheeks flushed and voice moaning so sweetly while I bury myself inside you. The other me’s put a great deal of thought into it, and might even have managed it last night, if he hadn’t bolted like a coward. Why _did_ he do that, anyway? Any ideas?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Akira hisses as quietly as he can. “If he doesn’t want to, that’s fine.”

The cognitive Akechi gives a small laugh. “Oh, believe me, he _wants_ to,” he whispers. “There are only a few things he wants more than to absolutely _wreck_ you. But…well, the night is young.”

The hand on Akira’s lower back slips down, rests on his ass. Squeezes, not very gently.

Akira grits his teeth. Doesn’t make a sound.

“I’m surprised you’re not responding more positively to this,” the cognitive Akechi whispers. “Even if you’re not quite as intense about it as he is, you certainly enjoyed the times he managed to at least get his hands on you. And yet you don’t seem to be enjoying this much at all. Curious.”

“You’re not him,” Akira hisses. “You’re a stray thought with a power complex, and once we’re done with this place you won’t be able to hurt anybody ever again.” Akira knows fear, and he knows pain. But more than that he knows what he can do to anyone who treats people like objects. Cognitions are no different.

The cognitive Akechi smiles. “I can certainly see why he likes you so much,” he whispers.

The hand on Akira’s thigh travels to his hip, across his waist, stops at the edge of his shirt. Slips underneath the fabric, grazes just beneath his waistband, brushes his bare stomach.

Akira stiffens. “You said you would stay over the clothes,” he hisses as his heartrate starts to rise.

“Did I?” the cognitive Akechi whispers. “Well, interrogators often make promises they don’t intend to keep.”

The fingers slip lower--

And the clock emits a loud _beep._

The cognitive Akechi sighs. “Pity,” he says, louder. He withdraws his hands. “Go on, get back to your seat. We’ve only just begun, after all.”

Akira stands up, more unsteadily than he’d like. Walks back to his chair. Grabs his coat and puts it back on, maybe a little faster than usual.

Sits down. Doesn’t look at Akechi.

From behind them, Ann says, quietly, “Joker, are you--”

“I’m fine,” Akira says. If he says it clearly enough maybe he’ll mean it. “Don’t worry, he didn’t do anything.”

A corner of the cognitive Akechi’s mouth quirks up. Akira ignores it. His body was blocking their view, they couldn’t have seen exactly where the hand went.

“Well, that was fun,” the cognitive Akechi says cheerily. “But we’re hardly done yet. Other me, it’s your turn.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

Akechi sits perfectly still.

For a second, Akira thinks, _is that supposed to be an embarrassing question? We’re all teenagers, none of us care if someone’s still a virgin._

Then he realizes that that’s not what the cognitive Akechi is asking, and he realizes that Akechi hasn’t answered yet, and a horrible, sinking feeling starts to creep into his stomach.

Akechi’s voice lacks any inflection as he says, “I’ll take the penalty.”

“Crow--” Akira starts.

“This is my decision, not yours,” Akechi says sharply.

“Oh my,” the cognitive Akechi murmurs. “Two penalties in a row? You must be confident you can withstand whatever the wheel sees fit to throw at you. Well, let’s find out, shall we?”

He snaps his fingers. When the wheel stops spinning, it lands on a symbol of a dark purple cloud, with sharp yellow eyes staring through the middle.

“Ah, _nightmare,”_ the cognitive Akechi says. “Another one with no particular physical effects, but…I’d hardly call it one of the easier ones.”

He snaps his fingers again.

Akechi doubles over, clutching his head, gasping. His whole body trembles.

All Akira can do is watch. Frustration and distress curdle together in his stomach. He has no idea what Akechi is seeing right now, but--he’s not sure he wants to.

Eventually, Akechi stills. He lowers his hands, one still bloody from his leg, and sits back up.

He looks horribly pale. One side of his face is smeared with blood.

“Have a nice dream?” the cognitive Akechi says pleasantly.

Akechi takes a deep breath. Seems to center himself. 

“Let’s continue with this farce,” he says, his voice perfectly even. “A mere illusion is far from enough to take me down.”

“I’d expect nothing less from the brilliant Detective Prince,” the cognitive Akechi says with a smile. He glances back to Akira. “And Kurusu-kun? Ready for your next round?”

“Yes,” Akira says, before he has the chance to say anything else.

“Very well. How about…

“Do you believe Haru Okumura is better off with her father dead?”

He hears a small gasp from behind him.

But he really doesn’t want another penalty, and--and it’s not impossible to move past this, once he’s said it. He and Haru are still friends. It might strain things a bit, but she knows he cares about her.

“Yes,” he says, and is grateful he can’t see her face.

“Care to elaborate?” the cognitive Akechi asks, folding his hands in his lap.

Reluctantly, Akira twists around in his seat. Haru sits between Makoto and Yusuke, Makoto’s hand over hers.

Akira picks his words carefully. “I know you loved him,” he says. “And I wish we’d been able to change his heart. But even a confession wouldn’t have gotten him a life sentence, and once he got out, you’d feel obligated to look after him. You’d still be trapped by him, just in a different way. With him dead, a lot of things are harder, but you’re not tied down anymore. I don’t expect you to agree with me. It’s just what I think.”

Haru’s mouth sets in a firm line. “Thank you for being honest,” she says, her voice clipped.

Makoto squeezes Haru’s hand.

“What a shame that he can only be honest when he’s being forced to,” the cognitive Akechi says brightly.

“Dude, _shut the fuck up,”_ Ryuji growls.

“Or if you _must_ keep talking, give me my next question,” Akechi says. “The sooner this is done with, the better.”

The cognitive Akechi sighs. “Very well,” he says. “I suppose I’ll have to make it a good one.

“How many people have you had sex with?”

And Akechi does not immediately answer.

The sinking feeling comes back, though Akira refuses to put any actual thought into it. It’s not his business, it’s not his business, if Akechi doesn’t want anyone to know _it’s not his business--_

Although of course if Akechi is so determined not to let anyone know that he takes another penalty, it’ll be a lot harder to ignore it.

The cognitive Akechi says, “Taking some time to answer? Or is it time for another penalty?”

In a very steady voice, Akechi says, “Would ‘I don’t remember’ serve as a correct answer?”

The cognitive Akechi puts his thumb and forefinger to his chin. “Well, that depends,” he says. _“Is_ it correct?”

“If you claim to know all the answers, then surely you’d know that,” Akechi says evenly.

The cognitive Akechi spreads out his hands. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give hints,” he says. “You’ll just have to try it and find out.”

Akechi exhales. “Very well,” he says. “I don’t remember.”

The cognitive Akechi claps. “Well _done!”_ he says. “Completely true. There’s been enough of them that it’s hard to keep count. After a while it starts to blur together, though I’m sure you remember the regulars. And the first one, of course.”

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

The words _“discarded when your masters grew tired of you”_ slither into Akira’s brain.

How much does he know, really, about Akechi’s life, about working for a man who speaks casually of using a teenager as an assassin? And he’s heard unpleasant rumors about why so many teen celebrities burn out so quickly, and so much of Akechi’s image is about how attractive he is--

And none of that ever seemed relevant at all but now--

Akira glances at Akechi. Besides the lingering paleness and the blood, his face is completely blank, but the hand pressed on his wounded leg is shaking.

“Now, let’s keep going!” the cognitive Akechi says brightly. “Kurusu-kun!

“Why do you not trust Goro Akechi?”

And Akira’s blood turns cold.

But no, this is fixable, it’s not the worst-case scenario, Akechi probably already _knows_ the Phantom Thieves don’t completely trust him, it’s not that suspicious.

But if Akira refuses to say _why_ they don’t trust him it’d be _very_ suspicious.

But if he _does_ say why--

Caught between two awful situations, Akira says, “I’ll take the penalty.”

He hears murmuring from behind him. Something that might be a bitten-back swear.

“Oh, _lovely,”_ the cognitive Akechi says with a smile. “Three correct answers in a row would’ve been dreadfully dull.” He snaps his fingers.

The wheel spins.

The arrow stills--and lands on the purple cloud once more.

The cognitive Akechi clucks his tongue. “Well, repeats can happen,” he says, and snaps his fingers again.

The world wrenches itself away.

A dark, dingy room. A single bright light. A metal table and two chairs. Akira’s been here--he scouted it with the others, didn’t he? To make sure it would work.

His head throbs. His arms are forced behind him; the cold metal of the handcuffs cuts into his skin.

Was there something he was supposed to do?

His memories have a bleary filter over them, obscuring…something important. He’s forgetting something. Even the present seems fuzzy, not completely here.

The door slams open with a harsh bang that rattles through Akira’s skull. Three men enter, bulky, wearing black suits and hard faces.

“The illustrious leader of the Phantom Thieves,” one of them says with a smirk. “Bet you thought you could slip out of our fingers forever, huh? I didn’t expect a criminal mastermind to be such an idiot, but you _are_ just a kid.”

“The adult world is no place for brats who don’t know what’s good for them,” the second one says. “It’s a shame you and your little gang had to learn that the hard way. But hey, I’m not complaining. No one’s gonna put up a fuss if a bunch of criminals disappear. And _you,_ well, you’re so far underground nobody’s even gonna hear you.”

The third one cracks his knuckles. “You’ve been a real thorn in our side, kid,” he says. “It’s only fair we get to work out some of that frustration.”

And the first one marches over, grabs him by the hair, slams his head into the table.

Akira cries out--it reverberates through his skull even more, mixes up his thoughts. Panic swirls inside him. _There’s something he’s forgetting--_

He’s wrenched backwards, thrown off the chair and onto the ground. A boot slams onto his ribs.

Through the blaze of pain, he hears something cracking.

His bare hands scrape against the concrete floor, the handcuffs digging in.

A slam into his side, hard enough to send him lurching up; someone kicks him over onto his stomach, and a boot stomps between his shoulder blades. He chokes; a few drops of blood spatter against the floor.

The boot on his back withdraws; someone pulls him up by his hair, crouches to get close to his face. “You should be grateful, honestly,” the man says. “The others got off easy. We just gunned them down. The redhead kept screaming, but she shut up pretty quick after we put a few bullets in her throat.”

Akira’s stomach twists violently as horror permeates his brain.

No no no it was just supposed to be him the others were supposed to be fine no one was going to die--

No one besides him was even supposed to get hurt no one should _die_ what _happened_ what did he do wrong why can’t he _remember--_

The man lifts him back up, slams his head back onto the table, sending a fresh wave of pain to overload his mind.

“You, though,” the man says. “We can do _anything_ to you.”

He’s shoved forward until his legs hit the edge of the table, a hand grasps at his lower back--

And the world wrenches away once more.

Akira finds himself gasping in his seat, the breath knocked out of him. The pain still echoes through his body. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, he twists around to see the others--

They’re all there. They’re fine. They look scared and angry and Futaba is squeezing Morgana on her lap enough that it must hurt and Ann is visibly restraining Ryuji, but--they’re alive. It wasn’t real. They’re fine, they’re _going_ to be fine.

And even the rest of it was an exaggeration, an attempt to intimidate him.

But--the cognition did say Sae knows what happens in those rooms.

And it’s not hard to imagine how much the police hate him--

He can’t let himself think about it. He takes a deep breath, breathes out, in, out, in, turns back around.

Clings to the thread that even if it _is_ like--it won’t be them. They’ll be fine. He can handle it if it’s just him. 

“Joker, are you okay?” Haru asks, her eyes wide behind the mask. See, that little revelation didn’t ruin their friendship, everything’s fine.

Akira nods. “Just a bad dream,” he says. “It’s over now, I’m fine.”

He glances over at Akechi--if his was that bad, then--

And suddenly he has a horrible idea what kind of things Akechi’s nightmare might’ve been about, and looking at him gets a lot harder.

“Well, that was fun,” the cognitive Akechi says pleasantly. “Other me, we’re back to you.

“Are you proud of what you’ve become?”

Akira swallows his discomfort to look at Akechi properly.

Akechi doesn’t seem as frozen as he did with some of the others. But he definitely doesn’t look happy. “Judging by an earlier question, I have the suspicion you’ll go on about _believing_ again if I give the answer that first comes to mind,” he says carefully. “So by the rules of this game, it would seem that the answer you are looking for is no.”

The cognitive Akechi pouts. “You’re no fun,” he says. “I suppose I should’ve expected the Detective Prince to start trying to pick it apart. The answer is indeed no. You _think_ you feel pride, yes, but in truth that’s just a veneer you’ve slapped over the reality that your best days are the ones where you feel nothing at all and on your worst days you wonder if your mother had the right of it in the end.

“Or at least, that’s how it _used_ to be--lately you sometimes get flickers of something close to happiness, and that’s good, of course, that’s a much better type of best day to have. But your _worst_ days, well.” The cognitive Akechi chuckles. “That little flicker of contentment makes them _so_ much worse.”

Akechi rolls his eyes. “Are you _done?”_ he says.

“You know, it’s responses like that that make me wonder if I should add a question about your acting skills,” the cognitive Akechi says pleasantly.

Akechi doesn’t respond to that.

“But yes, it’s Kurusu-kun’s turn again. Let’s see.” The cognitive Akechi drums his fingers against his upper thigh. “What’s a good one, I wonder. Ah!”

He smiles like a shark. “What do you want to happen to Wakaba Isshiki’s murderer?”

Akira tries very hard to not visibly react.

It’s as good as confirmation, too, of what they were suspecting--Akechi must be the one causing the mental shutdowns. _Why_ he’s doing it, who the man on the phone is and why Akechi is following his orders, is still unclear.

Akira’s not even completely sure what the answer to this question _is_ \--jail time? Forgiveness? Working to help repair the suffering he caused? Saying ‘jail’ would probably be the safest for the others to hear--they don’t want Akechi to _die,_ they probably want that too. And it’d be safe to say in front of Akechi, too, because jail is a reasonable thing to want for a murderer, it’s not suspicious.

But is it the right answer?

What _does_ Akira want to happen to Akechi?

And if it isn’t jail--how can he explain that to Haru and Futaba? To any of them?

And--wouldn’t it be suspicious, too? Wouldn’t Akechi wonder _why_ Akira is lenient towards a murderer? 

\--the nightmare didn’t last forever--

And he finds himself saying, “I’ll take the penalty.”

If the others are saying anything, he doesn’t hear it through the blood rushing in his ears.

The cognitive Akechi’s smile stretches even wider, and he snaps his fingers.

The wheel spins, the arrow stops--

On a stylized image of an eye.

“Oh, _finally,”_ the cognitive Akechi breathes. “One of the _good_ ones.” 

He snaps his fingers.

Akira has a panicked moment to think _No I should’ve said it it was fixable I could’ve_ before it feels like a knife shoves into his skull.

He screams, doubles over, clutches a hand to his right eye--and half his vision goes black. Pain ripples through his head like a shock wave. 

Something small and round and soft drops into his hand.

Bile rises in his throat as he pulls his hand back.

“You have such _striking_ eyes,” the cognitive Akechi says cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow one.”

It disappears from Akira’s hand and reappears in the cognitive Akechi’s.

He holds it up between thumb and forefinger, examining it closer. “Yes, it really is a lovely specimen,” he says. “I’ll just hold onto it for now.”

He drops Akira’s eye into his pocket.

Blood streams down Akira’s face as the agony continues to stab through him. Behind him, he dimly registers people yelling, though he can’t quite determine who.

“Quiet down, it was _his_ choice,” the cognitive Akechi says mildly. “The first penalty we saw was physical injury, he should’ve realized there’d be more along those lines.”

He feels a hand grip his shoulder--manages to turn around to see Makoto. Has to turn around a little more than usual.

She inhales sharply when she sees his face, but keeps it together. “We can leave,” she says, her voice steel. “This isn’t worth it. We’ll figure something out.”

His breath and voice come out ragged. “No,” he says. “There’s no other way through. You heard him.”

Makoto’s grip tightens. “He must be lying,” she hisses.

In a small voice, Futaba says, “I still don’t see any other exits.”

“I’m okay, Queen,” Akira says, even as the pain ratchets through his skull. “We’ll heal when we’re done.”

She doesn’t look like she believes him. But she withdraws, and sits back next to Haru, who puts an arm around her shoulder.

He’s not okay. Even the half of his vision that’s still there flickers with black spots. The pain makes it hard to concentrate, hard to put words together.

He drags his remaining gaze over to Akechi.

Akechi sits there, pale, unmoving. “…Queen has a point,” he says, his voice hoarse.

But Akira’s said his piece on that and doesn’t feel like trying to dredge the words out again.

The cognitive Akechi claps his hands. “How commendable for you to put up a brave face in front of your teammates,” he says. “Can you keep it up, I wonder? Regardless, we’re back to the other me.

“What is your greatest wish?”

Akechi’s jaw works for a moment before he says, in a voice like he’s dragging the words out of himself, “I’ll take the penalty.”

He barely even needed to think about it.

“My, that was quick,” the cognitive Akechi says. “But I can’t say I mind it.”

Snap, spin, stop.

An image of a fork.

“Oh, this is a fun one,” the cognitive Akechi says brightly. “It’s a shame I’ll have to let go of this when I’ve only just gotten it, but such are the sacrifices we make for work.”

He takes Akira’s eye out of his pocket. Akira flinches at the sight of it, bloody and white.

“Catch,” he says, and tosses it to Akechi.

Startled, Akechi barely manages to grab it before it falls--gently, and his hand twitches the moment the eye lands on it.

“You’ve been in this Palace for a while now, surely you’re hungry,” the cognitive Akechi says.

Akira’s stomach roils.

“…that’s _sick,”_ says Haru’s trembling voice.

“What the fuck is _wrong with you?”_ Ryuji growls. 

“This can’t be what my sister would want,” Makoto says, her voice wavering. “This goes beyond criminal punishment.” 

“…might I propose something?” Akechi says, his gaze fixed on the cognitive Akechi, not his hand.

“Oh?” The cognitive Akechi raises an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”

Akechi extends his hand towards the cognition, continuing to not look at it. “Revoke this penalty, and I’ll take two more,” he says calmly.

The cognitive Akechi purses his lips. “Interesting,” he says. “But I’m afraid suspects don’t have the right to make requests. Now, if you don’t follow through, you’ll never get out of this room.”

After a few seconds, Akechi slowly pulls his hand back.

Akira doesn’t feel like he’s entirely in his body as he watches Akechi raise his hand to his mouth.

“I wouldn’t recommend trying to just swallow it, by the way, or you’ll choke,” the cognitive Akechi says brightly. “You _will_ have to chew a few times.”

Akechi shuts his eyes, puts his hand to his mouth with a jerking motion. His jaw moves, once, twice. In the numb silence, Akira can hear a faint sound like squishing a bruised grape between your fingers.

Akechi swallows.

Akira feels like he’s going to be sick.

Akechi opens his eyes, lowers his hand. His pale face is a little green at the edges, but there’s a coldness in his eyes. “You realize that as soon as you open the door, we’re going to disintegrate you,” he says in a low voice.

The cognitive Akechi gives a dismissive wave. “I’ll come back sooner or later,” he says. “As long as Lady Niijima remembers you, she’ll always have a cognition of you around here somewhere. Of course, if you die here and are never seen again, she’ll forget about you eventually, so I suppose I might _eventually_ disappear. But by that point I’d have served my purpose, so it wouldn’t matter.”

“We’re going to steal Sae-san’s Treasure, and then this entire Palace will cease to be,” Akechi says coldly. “You will die with the rest of it, and your last thoughts before you are wiped from existence will be that you could not stop us.”

The cognitive Akechi smiles. “Well,” he says. “We’ll see, won’t we? Now, Kurusu-kun.

“What are you hiding from Goro Akechi?”

It’s like there’s no air in the room.

Akira’s thoughts manage to coalesce even through the ringing in his mind: he _can’t_ answer, he _can’t,_ it will ruin _everything._ Akechi will escape and think of a different plan and they might not have enough time to put together another one of their own. If he answers this question, _he will die._

The space where his eye used to be throbs.

The blood dripping down his face and staining his shirt is still wet.

He’ll _die._

 _Why is this happening,_ he thinks helplessly. _Why are we going through this nightmare. We were just trying to help people._

But it _is_ happening, and he can’t _stop_ it from happening.

And he doesn’t want to die.

He can barely make out his own voice as he says, distantly, “I’ll take the penalty.”

He doesn’t hear whatever anyone else is saying; he doesn’t pay attention to the cognitive Akechi’s face. All he sees is the wheel, spinning.

Stopping.

An image of a lower leg.

Awareness ratchets back up like he’s been yanked out of fog; panic digs into his brain like knives. The cognitive Akechi grins, says, “Wow, two of these in a row! You really must have a high pain tolerance, Kurusu-kun.” Snaps his fingers.

Some fraction of instinct makes Akira clap his hands to his mouth before agony explodes from his knee and a muffled scream rips from his throat.

Besides the near-unbearable pain, all feeling from his knee down vanishes.

A dull thump seems like the loudest sound in the room.

He doesn’t want to look. He has to. He slowly lowers his gaze.

His left leg is a clean, rapidly bleeding stump just above where his knee used to be. The rest of it is on the floor, blood draining into the carpet.

Loud noises behind him. The cognitive Akechi frowns, says, “If you’re going to be a difficult audience, I’m afraid I’ll have to put up a countermeasure.” Snaps his fingers. A couple loud thuds ring out.

Even through it all, tendrils of horror make Akira turn his head around, see if--

A translucent barrier across the room, blocking off the others, who stand behind it, some with weapons out. Ryuji slams his bat against it; another thud, and nothing happens.

Okay. They’re fine. Okay.

Akira realizes, distantly, that he’s very not fine.

His breath comes in ragged gasps against his hands. Immense pain ripples out from his leg and face, making it hard to think. There’s _so much_ blood, falling onto the ground from the stump or draining from the severed leg, spreading out from the carpet underneath him. 

Through the rising fog, he hears Akechi saying, his tone restrained, “It won’t be much of a game if one of the participants passes out from blood loss.”

“I’ll get to that in a moment,” the cognitive Akechi says mildly. “But I suppose I can at least help stave off shock.” Something that might be the sound of snapping fingers.

Something jolts through Akira like an electric shock, tearing a hoarse cry from him. Some of the fog dissipates, and his thoughts clear a little, but the pain remains.

He lowers his hands from his mouth, still gasping. Clutches his leg because--because he doesn’t know what else to do. Put pressure on it? Try to slow the bleeding long enough to finish the game?

“Blood loss _is_ very much a factor now,” the cognitive Akechi says. “So it seems like the right time to introduce the new phase of the game.”

Akira grits his teeth, tries to hold back some of the pained noises.

“What do you mean?” Akechi asks warily.

“Just a new rule,” the cognitive Akechi says. “From now on, other me, you telling the truth has an extra effect: I’ll partially heal Kurusu-kun. Not completely, you understand, but enough to keep him going for a while longer and prevent the need for more, ah, wake-up calls.”

Akechi’s jaw works. “Does he get the same effect?”

The cognitive Akechi shakes his head. “Oh, no, that wouldn’t be fair,” he says. “If _Kurusu-kun_ tells the truth…he gains the option of taking one of your penalties himself. Since he seems so prone to self-sacrifice.”

 _That’s ridiculous,_ Akira doesn’t say. _That’s stacked against me, that isn’t--_

Then he remembers that this Palace is all about being unfair.

“So, with that in mind,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Other me, now’s your chance to take advantage of the new rule. Or not. It’s up to you.

“Why do you deserve to die?”

Akechi hesitates.

A thin line of tension snakes through Akira’s body. If he doesn’t answer--

Akechi exhales, and says, steadily, “I have done things that cannot be forgiven. In a just world, I would be judged accordingly.”

The cognitive Akechi smiles. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

He snaps his fingers. In an instant, bandages appear around Akira’s head and leg. The pain lessens somewhat, and he sags in his chair.

“Feeling better, Kurusu-kun?” the cognitive Akechi asks.

Slowly, Akira nods.

“Good, because you’re back up soon,” the cognitive Akechi says. “But first, let’s elaborate on the other me’s last statement, shall we?

“It’s curious,” he says, “that you say _a just world._ Do you believe the real world will not judge you the way it should?”

“…whatever happens will happen,” Akechi says. His voice is quiet. “I’ve accepted this.”

The cognitive Akechi cocks his head. “But an earlier question revealed that you’re _afraid_ to die,” he says. “Funny, that you’d say you’ve accepted it, if you’re still afraid of it.”

Akechi’s fingers clench. “How I feel about it will not change whether it will happen,” he says stiffly. “It certainly will not change whether I deserve it.”

Akira doesn’t know how many people Akechi’s killed; he hasn’t counted all the shutdowns and breakdowns yet, and there might be plenty more that never made the news. He doesn’t know if that’s the full extent of what Akechi’s done for the man on the phone, either--although he does now have a more horrifying awareness of what some of the things Akechi was less willing to do might have been. But he knows some things.

Akira swallows and pulls his words together. “No one deserves to die,” he says hoarsely.

Akechi looks sharply at Akira. “…that’s a very noble statement,” he says. “But if you’ll recall, your preferred alternative punishment is significantly _worse_ than death, so I’d rather take the first option.”

He’s afraid he’s tipping his hand here. But--god, isn’t it obvious at this point? Akechi’s smart, he _must_ have figured out what the questions are pointing towards. What’s the fucking point?

“Save the commentary, please,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Kurusu-kun, you’re up. And do remember the new rule.

“Why do you want to save Goro Akechi?”

What’s the point of lying about that?

Akechi must know that Akira knows he’s a murderer. The others must have figured out that there’s something about what Akira thinks about Akechi that he doesn’t want them to know. What good would lying do?

“I didn’t finish what I was saying,” Akira says. “The people we go after don’t see themselves as needing punishment in the first place.” His body throbs, but he keeps talking. “If they wanted to change of their own will, we’d let them. If--” _Fuck it._ “Crow, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It’s not too late for you. If you have even the smallest bit of regret, _you can change.”_

Akechi exhales. “So, we’re finally past the artifice,” he says, his voice low and cold. “I doubt even you know the full picture, Joker, so let me make one thing perfectly clear: I _don’t_ have any regrets. Everything I have done, I did for a reason, and I would do it again without complaint.”

Akira gives a small, weary smile. “I thought this game was about telling the truth,” he says.

“That it is,” the cognitive Akechi says. “And for the record, boys, don’t think this little revelation gets you out of it. That door won’t open until I say it does. So let’s keep going, shall we? Oh, and Kurusu-kun--since you answered correctly, that new effect is yours. Whether you think it’s worth using is up to you. Other me…since you’re being so open now, maybe you’ll be willing to share _this_ one with the class.”

His smile is light, pleasant. “Why won’t you have sex with Kurusu-kun?”

Akira almost says, _I already told you I don’t care._

But he doesn’t know if interrupting is a good idea, and--

And Akechi isn’t answering.

Akira’s stomach twists. Akechi’s face is _frozen,_ even more than it was with any of the other questions, he’s not moving, he looks--the blank mask has a crack in it. 

Akechi looks _scared._

The seconds drag, and, and--

Akira isn’t even thinking when he says, “I’ll take his penalty.”

Akechi’s eyes snap to him. Behind them, Makoto says, “Joker, _don’t--”_

The cognitive Akechi laughs. It’s a bright, cheery, horrible sound.

 _“Marvelous,”_ he says. “Didn’t beat around the bush at all! I knew giving that rule to you was the right idea. You’re so _wonderfully_ willing to throw yourself on the fire to help someone, even an enemy. You really do think that’s your only value, don’t you? Well, let’s see what kind of fire is awaiting you this time.”

Snap. Spin. Stop.

“Ohhhh,” the cognitive Akechi breathes. “I was _so_ hoping for this one.”

The top half of the segment is an empty white space; the bottom half is a set of red digital numbers. 30:00.

Even the sight of the numbers makes Akira’s blood run cold as he remembers the last time they showed up, but--

The last time, the space above the numbers showed most of his outfit.

This time it doesn’t show _anything._

Akechi stands up from his chair, his face bone-white. “I’ll take the penalty instead,” he says, his voice losing all its previous malice as it fills with desperation.

“I’m afraid Kurusu-kun already made his choice,” the cognitive Akechi says with a wide smile. “I don’t recommend trying to get in the way. Besides, it would hardly have much effect on _you_ at this point.”

Akira’s blood turns to ice.

Something smacks against the barrier. _“No!”_ Ann screams. 

“We won’t let you!” Haru cries out, as more things slam against the barrier, weapons and spells and shouting alike.

But Akira barely hears it; all he hears is his own slamming heartbeat, and all he sees is the cognitive Akechi’s smile.

“I’ll have to be considerate of your leg,” the cognitive Akechi says. “Straddling me would jostle it a bit, wouldn’t it? It’ll be easier to move it out of the way if you’re on your back. If you’re worried about rugburn, you could lay your coat down, though it would get rather messy.”

This can’t be real. The cognitive Akechi is saying these things so casually, like he’s talking about the weather. He’s not shouting or gloating or even coming closer yet, it’s like this is a normal conversation, like it’s unimportant and everyday and not the most horrifying thing Akira’s ever heard, Akira’s faced monsters five times his size and he’s never felt this sickening, paralyzing fear that’s creeping through his entire body--

“I could say I promise to be gentle,” the cognitive Akechi says, conversationally, “but, well, this game _is_ about truth, so I won’t.”

Akira feels frozen in his chair. The cognitive Akechi stands up, smiles, adjusts his cuffs, says, “Really, you should be grateful. _He_ might be too scared to take what he wants, but--”

\--------and a blaze of white light fills the room.

When it dies down, the scenery has changed to the outside of the casino.

Several feet away from him, Makoto stands, wide-eyed and shaking, the remains of a goho-m falling apart in her clenched fist.

Akira sits sprawled on the ground. Everyone else stands, frozen in various states of anger. But after a second, the spell breaks, and a flurry of movement starts.

 _“Hecate!”_ Ann cries, and rushes to him, grabbing his shoulders as Hecate appears above them in a blue flame. A cool feeling washes over Akira. For a moment he half-expects to see some gruesome, rapid growth; but the blue flame spreads over his leg and half his face, and in a blink everything’s back to normal. Even his clothes are in one piece, minus the still-missing mask. The bandages disappear, and his vision returns like it was never damaged.

Ann’s eyes are wide behind her mask, and maybe a little wet. “Are you okay?” she asks, a hitch in her voice.

Akira says, “Yeah,” on auto-pilot, not even a moment to consider if it’s actually true. But nothing hurts anymore, at least.

Ann doesn’t look like she believes him, but she doesn’t call him out on it. She just sniffles. “We should’ve gotten you out of there earlier,” she says. 

“We’ll find another way through,” Makoto says. She takes a deep breath, steadies her voice. “I refuse to believe that was the only way forward.”

Haru clenches her fists. “E-even if it is,” she says. “We’ll think of something.”

But do they even _need_ to take this Treasure, now? They were doing all of this as part of the plan, and--the plan’s shot to hell. 

“But first we got something else to deal with,” Ryuji growls, and Akira realizes that he and Yusuke both have their guns trained at Akechi.

Akechi stands there, breathing shallowly, pale and bloody. He doesn’t reach for his own weapon. He’s just staring at Akira, his expression horribly fragile.

Ann stays with Akira, but Makoto, Haru, and Morgana raise their guns too. Futaba glances back and forth between them, whatever she’s thinking obscured behind her goggles.

“How much do you know?” Akechi asks quietly.

“We know you’re working for someone and you’re planning to kill Joker after a police ambush,” Makoto says. Her finger on the trigger is very steady. “We assume this means you were behind the mental shutdowns as well. Care to confirm that?”

Akechi gives a faint, unconvincing attempt at a laugh. “I may as well,” he says. “Yes, I killed Wakaba Isshiki and Kunikazu Okumura, and took or ruined the lives of dozens more. Are you going to kill me now?”

Haru takes a steadying breath. “Did you want to do it?” she asks.

“Yes,” Akechi says. “I already said I don’t regret anything I’ve done.” His face hardens. “And now that all of that’s out in the open, how are you going to play this? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the stomach to do what needs to be done here, but today’s just _full_ of surprises.”

As the paralysis drains, Akira thinks, _You said you deserve to die. Can you really think that if you have no regrets?_

Ryuji’s mouth sets in a hard line. _“Try_ us,” he spits. “We’ve dealt with plenty of scumbags, we’re not scared of you.”

 _But he’s not like the others we’ve dealt with,_ Akira thinks. _There’s more to it than that. What’s different about him?_

_You can’t lie that much without being a good actor. Is this a performance, too?_

_“Scared?”_ Akechi echoes. His face twists into a smirk. “You should be _terrified._ You know _nothing_ about me and what I’m capable of. I could take you all down without breaking a sweat.”

“I know you didn’t want that to happen to me,” Akira says quietly.

The smirk fades away like a wisp of smoke.

Akira gets to his feet. He almost stumbles--his balance is off, too mixed-up from losing half a leg and then regaining it. Next to him, Ann hesitantly withdraws her hands. “If you really want me dead, why did that matter to you?” Akira asks.

Now that the paralysis is gone and he’s had a moment to adjust, his thoughts are running in calm, clear lines. 

“The situation could still have been salvaged,” Akechi says stiffly. “Even if the chance was miniscule, I wanted to seem like I was on your side.”

Akira shakes his head. The movement sends a dart of phantom pain in his regrown eye; he winces, but keeps going. “That’s not even _near_ a decent lie,” he says. “Everything went up in flames the moment that cognition asked why I didn’t trust you, and you know it. But when I took your penalty, you still tried to take it back. Why?”

Akechi’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “That doesn’t matter now,” he says. “We’re not playing that hideous game anymore, you can’t force me to answer any questions.” He smiles like the edge of a knife. “Actually, here’s a _new_ question for you. Are you going to kill me or let me go? Which is worse: blood on your hands, or death at mine?”

“Your plan’s done now too,” Akira says. “No ambush, no arrest.”

“I’ll think of something else,” Akechi says coldly. “My goal is too important to let one setback get in the way. If you let me go, I _will_ kill you, one way or another. So what’s it going to be?”

 _“Why_ do you want to kill me?” Akira asks, because suddenly he thinks he’s getting somewhere. There’s a trail, he just has to follow it.

Akechi huffs in contempt. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

“You weren’t _born_ a murderer, and you spent time with me for _months_ before you made that phone call,” Akira says. “What happened? What made killing me seem like your only option?”

“You _really_ want to know?” Akechi laughs, slightly hysterical. “Fine. Why not. It’s not like _you’d_ tell anyone, and either I die here or we’ll both be dead by the end of the year anyway.”

And he tells a story about a father, and a son, and a god.

Akira listens in silence. Some of the others interject--Futaba, quietly, when he mentions unwanted children; Ryuji, loudly, when he says his relation to the man on the phone--but for the most part, they stay silent too.

Akira can tell there’s a lot he’s not saying. But he’s not going to ask.

Akechi spreads his arms. “And there you have it,” he says, his voice derisive. “My tragic backstory. Do you _get it_ now, Joker? Do you _understand?_ A year of probation with a fond caretaker and people lined up at your door to love you is _nothing_ compared to me. You could not _possibly_ understand why I need to do this.”

The trail’s getting deeper, he’s almost there. “Maybe I can’t,” Akira says. “But even after all that, even after you dedicated yourself to revenge above all else, even though part of your plan requires my death, _you don’t want to hurt me.”_

And Akechi falters, and Akira thinks, _there._

He takes a step closer. Phantom pain tingles in his leg, but he pushes past it, doesn’t let it break his stride. “Personas are about wanting justice,” he says. “Not just for yourself, but for others. You didn’t awaken to yours _just_ because you wanted to hurt your father, you did because you grew up surrounded by suffering and you wanted to stop it. Your mom, the other kids like you, everyone your father was hurting--even if you didn’t think about it that way, the revenge was never _just_ yours. You weren’t fighting against one man, you were fighting against the world he ruled. And even if you didn’t care about hurting others along the way, you don’t care about _nothing.”_

Another step. If he reached out, he’d almost be close enough to touch. “Even if it’s complicated, you care about me,” he says softly. “And you don’t want me to be hurt the ways you were.”

Akechi looks like he’d fracture if Akira touched him. “…just kill me,” he says wearily. “Moralize all you want, it won’t change anything.”

Another step. “I said it earlier,” Akira says. “You _can_ change. All it takes is wanting to, and having people who can help you with it. We can do that for you. _I_ can do that for you. I _want_ to.” He gives a helpless little smile. “I’ve made out with you like four times, did you think I did that because I hated you?”

It’s like there’s nothing in the world but the two of them, looking at each other, barely a foot of distance between them. “I’m nowhere near the person you thought I was,” Akechi whispers. “You like someone who isn’t real.”

“Then let me get to know you, and I’ll decide for myself what I think,” Akira insists. “But I think the odds are pretty good what I think about you won’t change.”

Whatever Akechi’s really like, the core of him must be the same. And even if most of his behavior was an act, Akira suspects there were moments where the truth slipped through. It was those moments he always liked best, anyway, the rare admissions that belied a fire much more enthralling than any TV smile.

Akechi stands there, silent, and it feels like the world balances on the edge of a knife.

“Even my father is only a small part of it,” he says quietly. “Changing hearts is not enough to destroy a system that has its hooks in all of society.”

Akira reaches out. Not far. Just enough to take Akechi’s hand.

“Then let’s start with the parts of it that have their hooks in you,” he says.

Akechi looks down at their joined hands. Looks back up at Akira.

“…the cognition asked me what my greatest wish was,” he murmurs. “Last spring, I would have said it was for my plan to succeed. But lately, I’ve realized that what I truly wish is that we had met years ago. So much would be different with just that.”

Akira smiles. Squeezes his hand. “Well, you met me now,” he says. “I think we can work with that.”

Akechi gives a very faint, tired smile. “You make it sound so simple,” he says.

“I’m not saying it’ll be _easy,”_ Akira admits. “But it’ll be easi _er_ if you’re with us.” He takes a deep breath. “What do you say, Crow? Want to join the Phantom Thieves for real? Everyone else here already brought a target with them, it’s basically a requirement.”

Akechi looks…still tired, still fragile. But there’s something in his eyes Akira doesn’t think he’s seen there before. “…I suppose it wouldn’t be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he says.

 _Yeah it’s not a patch on your revenge scheme,_ Akira firmly does not say. He _does_ say, with a smile, “Welcome to the team. Let’s get out of here.”

Everyone else has been silent, whether because they didn’t know what to say or they didn’t want to interrupt; now, though, Makoto says, a little hesitantly, “Will we come back here? My sister is still…”

“Sae-san’s Palace formed because of how she was treated, not because of who she was,” Akechi says. “There may be other ways to help her.”

Makoto swallows, and nods. “Okay,” she says.

“Hold on,” Ryuji says in disbelief. “We’re gonna let him join just like that? How can we even-- _ow,_ what was that for?”

Ann withdraws her elbow from Ryuji’s arm. “It’s been a really rough day, we can hash out the details later,” she says. “I bet everyone just wants to go home and get some sleep, right?”

Akira hasn’t missed the way she’s been looking at Akechi, how she didn’t even raise her gun with the others; it’s not hard to guess why, but he’s grateful for her anyway. Emotions are high right now. It’s better to give everyone a night to collect themselves before they deal with…everything.

A stray thought runs through his mind, and he accidentally gives an undignified snort.

Akechi gives him an odd look. “Something funny?”

“Not really, but…” Akira gives a crooked grin. “I just thought, ‘we got a new ally and all it cost was an eye and a leg’.”

“…you’re right, that’s not really funny,” Akechi says.

“It’s a little funny.”

It’s funny in the way of tripping on your way to the gallows. A fair cost, anyway, given that he got them both back, lingering pains aside. 

Though--that smile, the way the cognition looked at him like he was an interesting toy, the crawling feeling on his skin--

Maybe he didn’t get everything back.

But that’s another thing there’s no point trying to deal with tonight.

 _“Now returning to the real world,”_ the MetaNav intones.

When the scenery returns to the real courthouse, Akira and Akechi are still holding hands.

“Hey,” Akira says, glancing at Akechi. “Come back to Leblanc with me? Just for tonight. I don’t really think you should go back to a place owned by that guy right now.”

Akechi exhales. “You may be right,” he says. He looks down at Morgana. “Assuming I’d be welcome, that is.”

Morgana flicks his tail. “Well,” he says archly. “If it’s just for the night.”

Truth be told, Akira doesn’t really want to be alone right now. Morgana’s great, of course, but Morgana wouldn’t…get it. And it’s awful that Akechi would, but it is what it is.

“Okay,” Akira says. “Let’s go home.”

It’s been a _really_ shitty night. Upcoming days will only be marginally better, he’s pretty sure. 

But maybe he’s found an answer for what it takes for someone to claw their way back up.

A hand reaching down, and a reason to grab it.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [this amazing accompanying art](https://twitter.com/narrativef0ils/status/1302671527398211585) by Wynn!
> 
> And also these two [amazing](https://twitter.com/Poichanchan/status/1324698435539390465) [pieces](https://twitter.com/Poichanchan/status/1324699110344110082) by Poichanchan!
> 
> You can find me at [Tumblr](http://www.futuresoon.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/futuresoonest).


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